The Singer stands alone in the Great Hall, shivering. Her bare feet stick to the cool marble floor, which sends chills throughout her body. She wears a thin sleeveless shirt that is nearly translucent, and a simple green skirt that stops just above her knees. The only other article on her body is the small gold bracelet that he gave her; the charlatan, the liar. She hates him yet cannot part with his gift.

The room soon fills with men in sharp tuxedos and women in the latest finery and hairstyles. They wander into the hall, ignoring the Singer, taking their places at the cushioned seats to the far end. The air is pervaded with aimless chatter, crisp footsteps, and squeaking chair legs. As the last person sits, the Host and Hostess of the Evening enter behind the Singer. They saunter past her, flaunting their wealth in her face, making it absolutely known that they are in charge, that she is nothing. The Host smirks at the Singer and she inhales sharply, her hand involuntarily flitting to her bracelet.

"Now board the chariot to the capital of Allegory in the realm of Technical Fantasy . . . It succeeds rather well." Alan Lattimore for Tangent

About Me

I'm a 33-year-old writer of fantastical fiction, and a USian expatriate living in Singapore. My work has appeared in over three dozen venues and five countries. In 2008, my writing will see publication in Subterranean Magazine, Farrago's Wainscot, Sybil's Garage, Tiny Stories, and Strange Horizons. With Janet Chui, I run Two Cranes Press, an indie publishing atelier. More info can be found at my website, JasonLundberg dot Net.